pain has an infinite lifespan
by AlwaysPadfoot
Summary: This is his last therapist.


**AN: **For QLFC Season 7, Round 4. _KEEPER: "Well as long as we're digging up the past, we may as well dig up your mother." Grimm._

**Content Warnings**: Addiction, mention of Death and Drugs, mention of Past Abuse

* * *

**pain has an infinite lifespan **

**AlwaysPadfoot**

* * *

Sirius had gotten used to waking up in a stranger's bed. As disconcerting as it was coming to in a room that stunk of weed, under a sheet that was certainly not the pink-coloured duvet Sirius usually slept under, he'd fallen into a routine he wasn't sure he could break.

Another nasty habit to add to his collection.

Staring up at the ceiling, he searched desperately, eventually finding the effort to get out of this bed and away from the stranger lying next to him that he had no intention of ever meeting again. Squinting as he slowly turned to the window, he soon realised how hungover he was. Sirius' head was pounding. He needed a cigarette, maybe a coffee. Spotting his skinny jeans on the floor, he dragged them on over his boxers and searched out his shirt and jacket. Careful not to wake up his one night stand, he changed and checked his pockets. He made sure he had his phone, wallet, and cigarettes, before he headed to the door, picking up a stray lighter he knew was definitely not his on the way out.

As grateful as Sirius was for the fresh air, he was not happy about the winter's sunlight streaming down on him. He squeezed his eyes tight, rummaged for his sunglasses, and breathed a sigh of relief once they were on.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, Sirius' eyes swept his surroundings as he desperately tried to get the lighter to ignite. He wasn't familiar with this part of the city at all, and with his last memory being in some club he had no idea how he'd even gotten here. Finally, the lighter sparked to life, and Sirius took a long drag of his cigarette. He sighed contently, tilting his head back to the sky.

_If cigarettes are your only joy in life Sirius then I can't fucking help you, not whilst you're like this. _

Regulus' last words to him quickly wiped the brief ounce of joy he'd felt away. He huffed to himself. "Nice one, little brother. Fucking ruining my morning."

Sirius walked along two streets, smoking three cigarettes in quick succession before he got his phone out to figure out where he was. As it turned out, he wasn't too far away from the main road leading into town. From there he could either walk into the city or get the bus, he hadn't decided which one of those options he fancied yet. He'd figure out what his hungover-self was actually capable of by the time he'd dragged his feet all the way up to the main road.

Desperately thirsty by the time he got there, he ducked into a busy coffee shop and queued up for a coffee, having already decided that he was having a large.

After putting on his best face for the barista behind the counter, Sirius paid and leant against the wall waiting for his drink to be made. He gazed across at the noticeboard beside him, crowded with leaflets and ads that members of the public had pinned up there. Some were pretty common: guitar lessons, lost cats, and flyers for bands playing nearby. The one that caught his eye, however, was a light blue advertisement half-covered by a leaflet for plumbing services. At the top of the ad was 'Therapy' written in large bold letters.

Having had roughly seven and a half therapists since coming out of a rehabilitation programme five months ago, Sirius' interest piqued slightly. Casually he pushed the leaflet for Peter's Plumbing Services aside and read the advert underneath.

_**THERAPY **_

_Not into offering breathing techniques and meditation. Here to help you get yourself back on track. Consider this your first warning. _

_Take a slip if you want._

Along the bottom of the advert, there was little tear-off slips with a number and email. There weren't many gone. Sirius wasn't exactly surprised; the advert had hardly been persuasive, rather somewhat threatening. Maybe he'd take a slip. He was still looking for someone to actually help him sort his shit out. Well, at least, he thought that's what he wanted.

Someone called out his order behind him, Sirius lingered slightly and then turned to the counter to pick up his coffee.

No one saw him tuck the contact detail slip into his pocket as he left.

* * *

**To: _McGonagall Therapy_**

**From: _Sirius SonOfABlack_**

Hi,

I have no idea what to put in this email but I don't do mediation either and if you'll have me you'll be my eighth, well ninth, therapist.

I came out of rehab five months ago and it's safe to say you're my last hope.

Do your worst.

Sirius Black

**From: _McGonagall Therapy_**

**To: _Sirius SonOfABlack_**

Dear Sirius,

Please fill in the attached forms.

Directions to my office are at the bottom of this email. I have booked you in provisionally for Tuesday morning at eleven o'clock.

If this is inconvenient, cancel your other plans. This is far more important.

Regards,

Therapist Number 9

* * *

As Sirius stood outside, desperately trying to get the most out of his last cigarette, he began to wonder why he was doing this to himself again.

Opening himself up to yet another person who didn't really give a shit felt stupid beyond belief. His past wasn't easy to explain, especially because, in his explanation, every third word was an expletive.

_More money than fucking sense._

_Daddy dearest, what a dick. _

_Do not even get me started on that bitch. _

People never liked his explanations. On the outside, his family had seemed normal. _Affluent. Beautiful and spacious house. Private school for the kids_. Oh, it had been the perfect cover for outside eyes. Sirius learned early and escaped as soon as possible.

A wave of heat filled his mouth and he realised he couldn't put off going up to the office any longer.

Punching in the code that had been included in the email, Sirius let himself in and climbed the two flights of stairs up to the office. There was an archway at the top; the doors opening up into a waiting area. It was empty. Pristinely kept, there wasn't a magazine that wasn't perpendicular to the edge of the coffee table. All Sirius could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant sound of outside traffic.

With there being no one around, Sirius dropped into a seat next to a water cooler and leant forward, his elbows propped up on his thighs.

It was two minutes to eleven.

That gave Sirius two minutes to decide if he was staying or not.

The email response he'd received had given him some hope, at least, that this therapist understood that he wanted to get sorted. They seemed to understand the importance, despite the slight sarcasm included.

At twenty seconds to the hour, Sirius started to crave another cigarette, if only because he was starting to feel anxious. He had already predicted several outcomes where this would end up as the one and only time he would be in the same room as Therapist Number 9. This would be the last time he would do this, after this, he would just accept that he wasn't supposed to be fixed.

Dead on the hour, the door to his right opened wide.

Sirius took in the appearance of the woman in the doorway. She looked like a no-nonsense sort of woman. Her black hair was pulled back into a neat bun and her lips were pressed into a thin line, studying him just as intently as he was her.

"Sirius Black?"

He stood up, movement fluid, inhaling deeply before responding. "Yeah, that's me."

"Come in and take a seat." She stepped aside to gesture into the room behind her, holding the door open for him. "Anywhere is fine."

Sirius approached the door, hesitating when he saw the number of seating options. There was the desk with chairs opposite, a corner sofa with a multitude of cushions on it, and two high-backed armchairs facing balcony doors covered in water droplets from the earlier rain.

"This feels like a test," he quipped.

"I can assure you it's not," she responded. "I like giving the option to patients."

With a quick look at the options, Sirius selected the corner sofa and made himself comfortable. He crossed one leg over the other. It was rather cosy in here, at least that was something.

"This is nicer than any other therapist's office I've been in," he commented.

"Feeling uncomfortable isn't indicative of a productive environment," she said, picking up some papers and a voice recorder and putting them on the coffee table. "Before we start would you like a drink?"

Sirius passed on a drink, mainly because he didn't think she was going to be offering alcohol.

Dr McGonagall introduced herself then. She explained that she'd worked with several companies and with the NHS, but the way she practised wasn't exactly cohesive with the guidelines set out by her past employers. At the end of her final job, she decided to branch out and work self-employed.

"This is why I made it abundantly clear in the initial advert and subsequent documents you received via email, that I am not the kind of therapist who does all that wishy-washy nonsense," she said coolly. "If you want to learn meditation and mindfulness this is not the place to do so."

"You have this little introduction well practised," Sirius observed.

"I'm not in the business or wasting your time or my own." Sirius was starting to like the woman; he was about to speak when McGonagall continued. "So, we're done with me, Mr Black. Why don't you go ahead and tell me about the reason you're here?"

"How many people walk away after your speech just out of interest?" Sirius had always been one for small talk; he could do small talk until he made the other person uncomfortable, not that it was the intention to do so. It was just ingrained into him. "I can't imagine—"

"Mr Black."

"Oh geez, Doc, please don't. Mr Black is my father," he said quickly.

"Sirius, do you want to leave?"

He straightened up at that. The leather sofa squeaked beneath him as he shifted and met her gaze evenly. She really was a no bullshit type of doctor.

"I do not," Sirius replied.

"Then stop with the useless small talk and explain to me why you've sought me out."

He opened his mouth and then closed it. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she was trying to read his mind through her slightly-narrowed, green eyes. Sirius swallowed, relaxed his shoulders and let an amicable smile play across his lips.

Holding out his hand, he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

"Let's see," he began, counting off on his fingers. "Abusive parents; left home at sixteen; got into drugs at university; my brother died; just got out of rehab. Although now I'm more of a 'cigarettes, alcohol, and one-night stand' kinda guy. Guess that's better than snorting coke off the nearest surface or waking up in an alleyway after having all my possessions stolen."

"First of all, a person would have to have an IQ of a goldfish to not realise you're a smoker," McGonagall began. "And secondly, that doesn't answer the question. Why have _you_ sought _me_ out?"

The smile dropped instantly from Sirius' face.

"Because I honestly believe I'll be dead within six months if I stay on the path I'm on."

"Honestly, Sirius, you'll be lucky if you make it a month," she responded before standing. "Up. We're going to do an exercise."

There was no room for argument, no options to protest.

He found himself getting to his feet just as McGonagall tossed a pink post-it note pad to him, followed by a felt tip pen. He just about caught them both and was about to ask what on Earth he was supposed to do when she interrupted.

"You've just turned twenty-four, correct?" Sirius only managed to nod before she continued. "Label them. Zero to twenty-five."

He did as he was told, intrigued to see how this would turn out.

Marking out a timeline on the wall, the Doc had him put a post-it up for every large significant event he could recall. She didn't ask for an explanation when he stuck labels up with no obvious significance, not to her anyway. Things like Lily Day, and the Attic, went up along with Rehab, Regulus' death, and his overdose. There seemed to be a lot more shit events in his life than he initially remembered. It was a little depressing knowing his life so far fit on less than one pack of sticky notes.

When he couldn't think of anything else, he stood back alongside McGonagall to view the finished spread of pink post-its.

"Mother would be so proud," Sirius muttered.

"Well, as long as we're digging up the past; we may as well dig up your mother," McGonagall said.

"Not this session, Doc. Mother dearest needs a full hour dedicated to her, maybe two. Possibly a week." McGonagall arched an eyebrow at him and he grinned. "She really, _really_ is a piece of work."

He clapped his hands together, a clear sign that his mother was not what he wanted to talk about right now. Sirius would have to be emotionally prepared for when that day came if it ever did. To quickly detract, he asked for an explanation as to why they'd decorated the wall with his worst memories.

"Because once they represent something physical and we've tackled them, you can do whatever you please with the post-it note," McGonagall explained. "Keep it; eat it; burn it. It's your choice."

"Eat it?"

"It's your choice," she repeated, gesturing back to the sofa. "Shall we discuss when would be best to arrange meetings for you?"

"What? You don't want any explanation for any of this?" Sirius asked, raising his arm to the wall.

"Certainly not. We have a whole twenty-four years of history here, Sirius. Did you think you'd be done and dusted before midday?" He opened his mouth to respond, but McGonagall continued as though she hadn't noticed he was about to speak. "To make it abundantly clear: I am here to support you, but if you think I won't go into every single post-it note on that wall there, you are sorely mistaken. Are you ready to face reality?"

Sirius cocked his head to the side, looked between his scrawled post-it notes on the wall and then back to McGonagall.

"Why not? Sign me up."


End file.
